The clash on the platform raged on. Sparks scattered from each collision, the sound of fists meeting like thunder rolling through the arena.
Ming Yu's eyes widened as his latest strike was parried in a flash. The opening he had created just moments ago—gone, as though it never existed. Lao Xie's counter had flowed in with frightening ease, as if his body had already anticipated the movement.
Ming Yu drew in a deep breath, retreating two steps before steadying himself. His lips tugged into a strained grin.
"As expected," he said, his tone carrying both admiration and pressure. "You're really strong, Brother Lao."
Lao Xie did not answer. He simply adjusted his stance, sleeves fluttering in the wind, eyes calm as still water.
That calmness stung more than Ming Yu cared to admit. Each exchange had forced him to his limits, and yet his opponent fought as though it were nothing more than practice.
Their figures blurred once more. Ming Yu roared, throwing his weight into a flurry of blows, each strike sharp enough to split stone. Lao Xie flowed around them, brushing aside the strikes with measured precision, his counterattacks snapping forward with chilling accuracy.
The arena trembled beneath their steps. Dust curled into the air as disciples held their breaths, their eyes barely keeping up with the exchange.
Ming Yu's heart pounded, yet in the midst of his desperation, a bitter realization crept in. Lao Xie's breathing was steady, his gaze unwavering. No hint of strain, no edge of desperation.
Between heavy breaths, Ming Yu narrowed his eyes. "You're still holding back, aren't you… Brother Lao?"
"Perhaps," Lao Xie replied, though his mind wandered onto something else as something system told him few minutes ago caught him off guard.
—
Five minutes ago.
"Someone just probed at you, Host."
The system's voice had struck without warning, cutting through the clash of fists.
"Huh?" Lao Xie responded inwardly, even as his arms moved on instinct, parrying another strike. His gaze flickered, wandering briefly across the rows of spectators.
And there—he caught sight of two familiar figures.
"It's her?" he asked.
The system's tone was flat, as though it could read the thought forming in his mind. "Yes, Host."
"So… I can't hide it from her forever. I used a concealment talisman during our first meeting. The effect's gone."
Present time.
—
"Haah…" Ming Yu wiped the sweat from his cheek, his grin sharp despite the strain.
"Seeing you still holding back, I can't afford to step back now, can I?"
Ming Yu steadied his breath, the weight of his blade firm in his grasp. His voice rose above the hum of the arena, steady but carrying the burn of pride.
"Brother Lao," he said, lowering his stance, qi gathering around him like a rising tide, "if I cannot break through you here, then I'll admit defeat. Let us end this with everything we have."
Lao Xie's gaze flickered with amusement, though his expression remained composed. "Very well," he answered, his tone even, sleeves brushing against the wind. "One strike each."
The moment those words left him, the platform seemed to shrink, the air tightening as qi surged from both figures.
Ming Yu's aura deepened, steady and unhurried, like ripples spreading over a still lake at dawn. His blade gleamed with a gentle light, each movement smooth and flowing, yet carrying strength that seeped quietly into the air. The Flowing Crescent Sword Arts — First Light on Still Water. His stance radiated serenity, but beneath that calm surface lay a force waiting to surge forth.
Across from him, Lao Xie's sword lifted in silence. A faint hum stirred, but it was fleeting, almost like a breeze passing unnoticed. His blade seemed weightless, drifting with elusive ease, yet there was a subtle sharpness hidden in its calm. Heavenly Echoing Sword Arts — Sky's Whisper. It was soft, elusive, and deadly, a strike that promised to arrive before the enemy even sensed its approach.
The spectators leaned forward, hearts pounding.
"Look!" one disciple gasped, pointing toward Ming Yu's glowing sword. "That's the Flowing Crescent Sword Arts! But… that aura—it's much stronger than before!"
"He didn't use this level of strength in any of his earlier matches," another chimed in, eyes wide. "This… this is Ming Yu at his limit!"
Excitement rippled through the stands, voices overlapping in awe and anticipation.
But soon, a different murmur stirred.
"Wait… what about Lao Xie?" someone whispered, brows furrowing as they watched the faint, strange rhythm emanating from his blade. "What sword art is that? I've never seen it in the sect's manuals."
"Neither have I. It doesn't look like anything taught on any of the peaks."
"That's impossible," another interjected, tone skeptical yet tinged with unease. "For an outer disciple to wield something unfamiliar to the sect… where did he learn it?"
Speculation spread quickly, the uncertainty gnawing at the edges of their excitement. Some spoke of hidden inheritances, others of chance encounters or stolen techniques. But no matter the theory, their eyes refused to leave the platform.
On the far side of the stands, Ling Ruxin leaned closer to Elder Yao, her brows furrowed. "Elder Yao… do you know this sword technique? I've never seen it before."
Elder Yao's gaze was calm, though her lips pressed together slightly before she shook her head. "No. I do not recognize it. I have seen nearly every sword manual within the sect, yet this… this is not among them."
Ling Ruxin's heart stirred as a memory resurfaced. That day in that Forest—Lao Xie's blade flashing only once, cutting down the Demonic Wolf without effort. She had been left speechless then, awe-struck by a single slash that carried no wasted movement. And now, seeing that same technique poised to be unleashed against Ming Yu, the same unease returned.
Her fingers tightened slightly over her sleeve. "He's using that again… against Junior Brother Ming Yu."
"There is no need for concern," Elder Yao said lightly, though her eyes did not leave the stage. "Do you sense any killing intent from his sword? Any aura that screams of blood and death?"
Ling Ruxin paused, realizing she didn't. The strike was quiet—eerily so—but there was none of the suffocating weight she had expected.
"He is not fully concentrating," Elder Yao continued. "That boy is still hiding his true power. Otherwise, Ming Yu would not even have the chance to raise his blade."
"Though I'm not sure," she added with a faint glint in her eyes, "that technique Lao Xie is using… it might be more profound than the Flowing Crescent Sword Arts."
The two figures on stage stood locked in silence, sword qi swelling higher, sharper, the pressure so heavy even the air began to ripple. The crowd, once loud, fell into a tense hush.
Ming Yu exhaled slowly, his stance unwavering. "Brother Lao," he said with a grin, though his eyes were solemn, "let's see whose blade reaches the end first."
Lao Xie raised his sword, calm as the sky before dawn. "Come."
The arena seemed to hold its breath as soon as Lao Xie let out the word.
Ming Yu's qi surged, his sword raised high, light blooming along its edge until it seemed to draw in the morning sun itself. His voice rang out, steady and clear—"Flowing Crescent Sword Arts, First Light on Still Water!"
A silver arc unfurled, dazzling and elegant, like the first gleam of dawn rippling across a tranquil lake. The strike carried grace and power, pressing down as though it could wash away all resistance in its path.
Opposite him, Lao Xie lifted his sword with neither shout nor flourish. His blade trembled once, and the world seemed to fall into silence. The swelling qi around him thinned, scattered, as though devoured by the air itself. His tone was calm, almost like a whisper.
"Heavenly Echoing Sword Arts — Sky's Whisper."
No blinding radiance followed. Only a faint vibration echoed out, rippling softly through the arena, invisible yet inescapable. Where Ming Yu's brilliance sought to dazzle the eyes, Lao Xie's strike slipped into the heart, its edge hidden yet impossibly sharp.
The two blades met.
A storm of qi erupted, crashing outward in a wave that rattled the stands. Dust surged into the air, blurring sight, and disciples cried out as the shockwave pressed against their chests.
When the haze settled, Ming Yu stood frozen, sword trembling in his grip. His silver crescent had been severed neatly down the middle, its light scattered into nothing. Before him, Lao Xie's blade rested at his side, calm, untouched.
For a moment, Ming Yu struggled to breathe. Then, at last, he let out a long exhale, lowering his sword with both hands.
"…I lost."